


Square One

by ArchangelAzrael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Human Castiel, M/M, Post-Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelAzrael/pseuds/ArchangelAzrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak watched the world end. At least he wasn't late for work.</p><p>(Tags, relationships, and characters will be added to as story progresses).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Square One

_THEN_

_He’s strapped to a chair in a brightly lit room. He never understood how the feeble restraints actually managed to restrain him. It must be warded somehow to render his angelic abilities useless. He wonders what allowed Naomi to manipulate them. He struggles against the metal and leather links cuffing him to the seat, but it seems to only grow tighter and the chains burn his vessel’s wrists. His body, he corrects himself. Jimmy has not inhabited this body for a long time._

_He strains his thought processes toward figuring a way out of the situation, but thinking of it hurts his head for some strange reason. He stares at the ceiling for a while and then blinks as multicolored dots appear in his vision. The white lights cause his eyes pain; how peculiar. He feels as if he should know where the exit is located; as if he has escaped this place before. But he can’t recall anything helpful or of importance. Perhaps Naomi was correct, he couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t save Dean or help Sam with the trials. He couldn’t even currently save himself._

_It’s with this epiphany in his mind when Metatron enters Naomi’s office. If you looked at his appearance with a mind as naïve as his used to be, you would likely come to the conclusion that Metatron was Marv, a reserved human book collector. If you had a suspicious mind and could see the depths of a person’s soul like he could, you would be laying your eyes upon God’s Scribe, the lone translator and author of the angel and demon tablets. Among others, the tablets all accurately state God’s word. He admits that he should’ve been more curious about Metatron’s intentions, but it had never occurred to him that just because he trusted the writing, meant that he shouldn’t trust the writer. He could see it now though; the hunger in his eyes, the malice in his grin._

_He especially loathes the fact that Naomi was telling the truth. She physically implanted lies and orders into his mind, his very being, controlling him and making him commit heinous acts against people he held close, and yet the one time she decided to tell the greatest truth ever to be told, he didn’t listen. What is that human story? The Boy Who Cried Wolf? His existence seemed similar to that now. Naomi was the boy; hypocritically controlling him to do her dirty work in the name of Heaven. He can’t decide who he hates more: Naomi or himself. Why did she choose the last minute to confess Metatron’s plans when she knew he wouldn’t believe her after everything she’s done to him? He realizes that she might have made mistakes like he did, which sickens him because it suggests that the two of them share a certain quality. As Dean would most likely say in this situation, “She’s a bitch.” Anger is such a human emotion._

_He winces slightly as the angel blade pierces the skin under his chin. Metatron holds a glass vial against his neck; it feels cold, permanent like a death sentence. His body grows hot as his grace flows through the wound and into the vial. When you’re in a vessel, you feel confined because you know you’re something so much greater; it’s like putting an elephant in a suitcase. With your wings packed in such a small organism, they can’t be shown on this plane of existence, but you feel them hovering over your shoulders or in his case, protectively around the Winchesters. For a moment he feels weightless. Though when he is left graceless and the gravity of what had just happened reveals itself, he feels the weight return for a completely different reason._

_He lost the purpose of his existence in a manner of minutes. He’s told that Heaven shouldn’t concern him, as if that wasn’t his home. He is not to think of master plans, even though he was created as a result of one. His home is going to be destroyed. He will be hunted yet again. He could’ve prevented this. It’s all ---_

_“These were never trials, Castiel. This is a spell.” Metatron sneers. “And what I’m taking from you now --- your essence, your Grace ---- is the last piece.”_

_\---his fault. He is to tell his story when he inevitably dies. He feels like his story already ended. He was an angel, now he is not. He was of use to Dean and Sam, now he isn’t. How can he face them again, knowing what he had caused?_

_Metatron places his palm on his mortal forehead. The light in the room becomes overwhelming. The angels fall and the last thing that Castiel thinks before he loses consciousness is that maybe things would’ve been different if he had just followed orders._

NOW

At exactly 8:20 A.M. every morning, he would clock in at Garrison Bank even though he was several minutes early. He took this extra time to go to the Starbucks across the street despite his friend, Dean, expressing a constant, unreasonable disliking for the establishment. The Miami sun would radiate intense heat upon him regardless of the early hour and the clouds blocking it. He would let out a relieved sigh as a gust of air-conditioned air cooled his sweaty face. He would then proceed to order Chai Tea ( _brewed, not that nasty latte that they serve_ ) and a blueberry scone. He would greatly appreciate the fact that although the store was well known for its coffee, when Starbucks first opened, tea was provided too. He would drink small sips as he sat at a table by himself, reading yesterday’s news on his laptop. Interestingly, he would never finish the tea. (He actually hated the taste of it, but figured that it was healthier than drinking coffee). He would then run back to work when he realized that he had around two minutes left to be sitting in his cubicle. This was his daily routine. Yes, it was somewhat bland and repetitive, but it kept his life orderly. So on the one day that Castiel didn’t go to Starbucks and the world he knew literally crumbled before his eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a slight pang of guilt, as if the world ended because he didn’t order that blueberry scone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you also decide to enjoy the rest of it when I post it.  
> Hugs and kisses to all you glorious geeks and victorious freaks! :D


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